


You Did Good Kid

by dementorsatemysoup



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Big Sister Fiona, Bipolar Disorder, Episode Tag, Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 03:10:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dementorsatemysoup/pseuds/dementorsatemysoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey and Fiona talk about Ian...</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Did Good Kid

**Author's Note:**

> I figured this scene was going to get written anyway, why not jump on the bandwagon. Plus, I'm getting a little tired of seeing perfectly good scenes featuring Mickey (and Ian) getting yanked out of the episodes just so they can be replaced by yet ANOTHER love interest for Frank or more Sammi.
> 
> Anyway, my spiel is over. Enjoy the story and thanks for reading.

**[oddball94](https://ficbook.net/authors/1840689) did a [Russian](https://ficbook.net/readfic/4941511) translation of this which is totally awesome.**

* * *

 

Mickey closes Ian's bedroom door and follows Fiona down the stairs, carefully maneuvering around the ladder so he doesn't knock it over and wake the entire house. Fiona leads him into the kitchen, glancing over her shoulder at him with a small smirk on her face. "You sure you know how to use an iron?"

"It ain't exactly hard," Mickey retorts taking the box from her. He sets it on the counter, opening the top, digging around the contents. While everything smells like attic, the items look far cleaner than any article of clothing the Milkoviches have ever owned. "What do you need exactly?"

"There should be a light blue shirt and a pair of slacks in there," Fiona answers dragging out the ironing board. "Lip and Ian haven't worn that stuff since their eighth grade graduation."

Mickey nods, half-listening, pulling the dress shirt from the bottom of the box. He hands it to Fiona, searching for the slacks, but he looks up when he feels her eyes on him, giving her a questioning look.

"Thank you," she says after a beat, and Mickey raises his eyebrows. "For this morning," Fiona clarifies giving him a pale smile and Mickey breaks eye contact with her, looking down at the box again.

He shrugs, rubbing his nose, and murmurs, "Not like he wouldn't do the same for me."

"You don't get it..." Fiona crosses the room to stand next to Mickey, hesitating for a few seconds before dropping a hand on his shoulder. "...you're doing more for Ian than Frank  _ever_ did for Monica. You talked him down, stopped him from hurting anyone. You helped convince him to go back to the clinic, and he's taking his meds now. You're  _helping_ him Mickey." _  
_

He shrugs again, noncommittally, rubbing the back of his neck, shaking her hand off his shoulder. He glares into the box of clothes, chewing on his bottom lip, wishing he had a cigarette. He doesn't  _want_ Fiona to thank him, doesn't  _want_ her to think he's helping, not when he feels like shit every time he sees Ian like this. This thing, this disorder that Ian is suffering from, is Mickey's fault.  _He_ couldn't commit to Ian last December, so Ian left, and while Mickey didn't know much about triggers, he knows letting Ian go was a major catalyst in what's happening to him now. This all could have been avoided if he had just stepped up and told Ian how he felt last year.

"Don't do that," Fiona says suddenly, her voice sharp, and he glances over at her stern look. "Don't blame yourself. This, what Ian has, is the product of fucked up genes on Monica's side. It's Russian Roulette, and Ian happened to take the bullet. This isn't on you."

Mickey's immediate response is to deflect, so he takes a step away from Fiona and demands, "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I know that look," she states pointing at his face, clearly unaffected by his outburst, and he scowls. "I remember one time, when I was six, I thought if I am a better daughter, do a better job of taking care of the boys, then maybe Monica won't leave this time. She'll stay and be our mother. I even tried to keep her from Frank, but that blew up in my face." She trails off, looking at something just over his shoulder, but she meets his eyes a moment later. "My point, we fuck up, life fucks us up, but there are some blows even  _we_ can't avoid. What happened to Ian," she points towards the stairs, "isn't anyone's fault. Not yours, not mine, not Monica's (even if I want to blame her). No ones."

She turns from him, digging around the box for the slacks, obviously giving Mickey a moment, but finally she pulls them free and holds them up. "Now, come on, let's get these ironed for Carl."

He nods, clearing his throat, and follows her to the ironing board. She already has the iron set up, and she lays the slacks on the board and gestures to them. "Come on, Milkovich, show me how it's done."

His lips quirk up in a pale smile and he shakes his head, grabbing the iron. He still feels guilty, still has to face the prospect of Ian being Bipolar for the next 40 years, but he also knows he's not going anywhere. He's not Frank; Ian sure as fuck isn't Monica; they aren't some tragic love story. They'll be fine,  _Ian_ will be fine.

He has to be fine.


End file.
